


Real Feelings from Past Dealings

by punk_rock_yuppie



Category: Big Time Adolescence (2020)
Genre: Comfort, Crying, Death, Gen, Grief, Growth, Non-graphic descriptions of death, Post-Movie, drug overdose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:20:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23335276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punk_rock_yuppie/pseuds/punk_rock_yuppie
Summary: if i must go and die at 27, at least i know i died a legendMo comes home for summer.
Relationships: Monroe "Mo" Harris & Zeke Presanti
Comments: 8
Kudos: 18





	Real Feelings from Past Dealings

**Author's Note:**

> naturally, I have started listening to Machine Gun Kelly's music and tbh I only rly like the album 'Bloom' esp bc "Let You Go" is the most mo/zeke song ever. But "27" is pretty good, and that song fully inspired this sad, oh so sad, piece. As the tags state, the death is non-graphic, but there's a lot of grief and crying in this fic. also, this is technically gen, but I write everything with the subtext of Mo being in love w/ Zeke, so. shippy if you squint? 
> 
> Big thanks to Hannah for beta'ing, as always! (also, I kinda fudged w the ages to make the "Zeke dying at 27" thing really fic lol) 
> 
> enjoy, my teeny tiny fandom, enjoy.

The text from his mother comes in just as Mo boards the bus that will take him back home from college. It had been easier to take a two-bus trip than to waste gas driving himself, especially just for a short trip. He’s got a suitcase he drags along with him as he tries to find a seat on the crowded bus. His backpack jostles the people he passes. His plan is to do homework on the hour-long drive, but his phone buzzes again, and again, and again. 

He doesn’t know it’s his mom texting him until he finally finds a spot to cram himself into and digs his phone out of his pocket.

> ** from: ma  
>  ** _Honey, I have bad news._
> 
> ** from: ma: **   
>  _Do you remember Isaac Presanti?_

Mo’s breathing catches in his chest. Of course he remembers Zeke. He hasn’t heard from or seen Zeke since his sophomore year of high school. He’s a junior in college now—Jesus, six years? Nearly seven? But he could never, not _ever_ , forget Zeke.

Despite the fear bubbling up in his chest, Mo lets his gaze drift a little lower to read the last couple messages from his mom. 

> ** from: ma  
>  ** _He passed away, honey_
> 
> ** from: ma **   
>  _I’m so sorry, sweetie. I know you two were close when you were in high school._
> 
> ** from: ma ** _  
>  Your dad didn’t want me to tell you, but I had to. _

Mo has about a million questions—who’s handling the funeral? How did he die? Was it drugs, or a freak accident, or suicide?

Mo doesn’t realize he’s crying until the woman beside him softly asks, “uh, sir, are you okay?” 

Mo shakes his head but doesn’t elaborate. He means to text his mom back but his sudden swirling thoughts consume him. He spends the entire first bus ride in a daze, swaying with the turns of the bus and lost in his head. He almost misses his stop so he can get on the second bus, and he’s saved at the last minute by someone nearly elbowing him in the face.

Once he’s on the second bus, he finally thinks to look at his phone again.

> ** from: ma  
>  ** _I’m so sorry, Mo._
> 
> He swallows around the lump in his throat. 
> 
> ** to: ma  
>  ** _Can we talk about it when I get home?_
> 
> ** from: ma  
>  ** _Of course, sweetie_

It does nothing to comfort Mo. No matter what, Zeke is dead. Gone. Even if Mo hasn’t talked to the guy in years, he was an undeniably huge piece of Mo’s life, for a long time. And, radio silence or no, Mo still thought about him occasionally. 

He thought about Zeke when he first realized he was bisexual, and he thought about Zeke the first time a college friend overdosed on pills. He thought about Zeke when he saw someone swapping dime bags for twenty bucks a piece. He thinks of Zeke, briefly, every time he takes his shirt off and spots his dumb little tattoo. 

The second bus eventually arrives at the bus station where his mom is waiting for him. He was just going to catch an Uber, but his mom had texted him halfway through the second ride to tell him she’d pick him up. He loads his single suitcase and his backpack into the backseat before climbing into the car in a daze.

“Oh, honey,” his mom murmurs, dragging him over the center console for a hug. “I’m so sorry,” she says into his hair, “when I saw it in the paper, I knew I had to tell you.”

“Do you have the paper?” Mo asks, voice muffled against her shoulder. He clings to her, to her familiar scent and the scratch of her curly hair against his cheek. 

“I do. Are you sure you want to see it?”

Mo hugs his mom for a little longer, squeezes a little tighter before finally pulling away. “I’m sure. I need to see it.” He nods, more to himself.

His mom retrieves the newspaper from the backseat and drops it gently in his lap. He doesn’t immediately pull it closer to take a look; he slips his seatbelt on first, and his mom starts the car. It isn’t until they’re on the highway, heading home, that Mo finally finds the strength to look at the obituary. 

_ Isaac “Zeke” Presanti, age 27, passed away Sunday, June 17th, 2024. Funeral services will be held on Friday, June 22nd, at 9:30am, at the Forest and Schmidt Funeral Home.  _

And...that’s it. Small, almost unnoticeable. If he hadn’t known to look for it, Mo isn’t sure he would’ve seen it at all. No information on how he died—maybe they don’t know, or maybe it was even worse than Mo’s imagining. He’s not survived by anyone, parents’ dead a long time ago and grandma too; no kids, no wife, no girlfriend. 

Mo’s head hurts from crying by the time his mom pulls into the driveway. His dad’s waiting on the porch and Mo makes no move to get out of the car.

“Honey,” his mom starts.

“He didn’t want me to see this,” Mo says. His voice cracks. “I know...I know he hated Zeke, but he was my friend. For a long time, he was my _best_ friend.” Mo closes his eyes, swallows, tips his head back as if it’ll keep the tears from spilling onto his cheeks. “And now he’s fucking dead.” Mo bites his bottom lip on a whimper and scrubs furiously at his eyes. 

Beside him, his mother sighs. She kills the engine and climbs out of the car. The door slams shut—not angrily, at least—and Mo’s left alone. He just needs a minute, he tells himself, just a moment to collect his thoughts before he faces his father. He’ll probably get a lecture for being upset—Zeke was a lowlife, probably even until the very end. Mo knows that. Mo knows his life has been better without Zeke in it. 

But god, it _hurts_. 

Mo lays a hand over his chest as if it’ll stop the ache in his chest when suddenly, his door opens. He jumps, lets out a wet and startled noise, and turns to find his father kneeling beside the open door.

“Mo,” his dad says softly. “I’m so sorry.”

His dad holds open his arms, and Mo scrambles to get out of the seatbelt before throwing himself at his dad. They crash onto the concrete of the driveway, but his dad only holds him tighter. 

“I know you hated him,” Mo starts to say in a voice thick with tears, but his dad shushes him.

“He mattered to you,” his dad says. “That’s all I care about.” 

Mo hides his face against his dad’s chest and cries.

It could be minutes, it could be hours, but eventually Mo makes it inside with his dad’s help. Mo drops onto the couch like a stone; his mom brings him a glass of water and his dad murmurs about ordering pizza for something easy to eat. Mo barely registers the cool drink on his tongue, he barely hears his dad on the phone with the pizza place.

“Do you want us to drive you there?” His dad asks, drawing Mo out of his reverie.

“What?” Mo looks up. It hurts to blink; his eyes are sore and probably bloodshot. 

“The funeral. Do you want us to drive you? It might be safer, just in case...you’ll be upset afterward,” his dad explains, “I’d feel more comfortable knowing you’re not at risk of driving off the road.”

It feels melodramatic. The thought of Mo driving himself into a ditch or off a bridge because of tears in his eyes, tears for Zeke Presanti. But, Mo reasons, he can’t say it wouldn’t happen. So he nods.

“If you could drive me, that’d be nice, yeah. Thanks.”

“Okay.” His dad nods too. “What do you need, Monroe? How can we help?” 

Mo shrugs. “I...I don’t know. It’s not like we were still friends…” Mo twiddles his thumbs and can’t seem to drag his eyes away from the carpet. Quietly, he confesses, “I kind of thought he’d live forever.”

The couch sinks slightly as his dad and mom take seats on either side of him. 

“I know, kiddo,” his dad says. His hand is warm and firm on his shoulder. “Guys like that always seem like they will.”

“I can’t...I don’t think I can even wrap my head around it.” Mo shakes his head before hiding his face in his hands. It’s easier to close his eyes and let his hands block out any remaining light than do anything else, like move or talk or think. At some point, his mom gets up to answer the door when pizza arrives. She brings it into the living room—as if this night wasn’t already odd enough. They never eat dinner in the living room. 

They’re halfway through their first slice, Mo barely nibbling at his, when he says, “I don’t know...I don’t know if I can go.” It hurts to admit. It feels cowardly, but just as Mo never really felt brave enough to face his past and Zeke, he’s not quite sure he can face this. He’s not sure he can do it and come out the other side still standing.

“That’s okay too,” his mom assures. She pats his back. “You tell us if you want to go, and we’ll drive you. But it’s okay, if you can’t.”

Mo nods, and finally takes a real bite of his pizza.

* * *

Despite his hesitance, Mo dresses in one of his dad’s older suits come Friday morning. He’d told his parents the night before that he wanted to go, and his mom made sure to do a quick batch of tailoring—the jacket fits alright, but the pants are a little short. The only shoes Mo really has are his blue Converse, and he forgoes his contacts in favor of his glasses.

His parents meet him at the front door; even though they aren’t coming in to the funeral home, they’re both still dressed nice. Like they’re going to church, even though none of them have done that in years. He nods at his parents. They nod back. Wordlessly, they all slip outside. 

The drive to Forest and Schmidt is quiet. His dad keeps the radio turned down low and traffic is weirdly nonexistent as they drive across town. The parking lot is pretty empty when they pull up; it’s not unusual for a small-town funeral home, but it’s still eerie. 

“You take your time, okay, Mo?” His mother says, twisted around in the front seat to look at him. “We will wait here as long as you need, okay?” 

Mo nods. “Okay, mom.”

“Maybe after this...we can go get food, or something.”

Mo gives his best attempt at a smile. “Yeah, maybe.” He finally forces himself out of the car, even though his limbs feel almost cement-heavy. The walk up to the door of the funeral home feels like he’s walking the plank. Mo manages it, but his heart is pounding by the time he gets inside. The stirrings of a panic attack are starting up in his ribs and he has to take a deep breath to keep them at bay. 

“Sir?” A quiet voice comes from beside him. “How can I help you?” 

Mo blinks at her. He clears his throat, already thick with unshed tears, and says, “I’m here for the Presanti funeral service.”

She ‘ah’s quietly. “Right this way. Since he didn’t have any family, we have him set up in a small viewing room so that friends can pay their respects.”

Mo nods and follows her down a nearby hallway. There’s no voices or music; walking down the hall feels just as daunting as his walk through the parking lot.

Finally, the woman slows to a stop and gestures to the slightly ajar door beside them. “Right in here. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

Mo just nods before slipping inside the room. The casket is ominous. Simple, no carving or engraving or detailing of any kind. It’s a dark wood, sleek. Zeke would’ve liked it, Mo thinks before he chokes on a soft sob. He staggers closer to the casket and notes, with a mixture of relief and disappointment, that the top is closed. 

Mo turns around and slips out into the hallway. “Uh, ma’am?”

“Yes, sir?” The woman appears at the end of the hallway again. “How can I help?” 

“The casket is closed,” he says, “the obituary didn’t say how he died, but I didn’t expect…” He looks helplessly over his shoulder at the casket. Fear ripples through him for a second, fear that Zeke might pop up out of the casket, like a sick joke.

When he turns again, the lady stands beside him once more. “Were you two close?” She asks softly. 

“He was my best friend in high school,” Mo replies easily. “We hadn’t spoken in a couple years. I was home for summer break, and...My mom told me about the obituary.”

The woman nods. “Let’s step inside.” She nods to the room and Mo takes a few steps back. The lady follows him in and shuts the door behind them. “We really didn’t expect anyone to come see him.” She looks at the casket. “I was surprised when you asked for this service. If you’d like, I can lift the lid.”

“He didn’t...it’s not…?”

“It’s not gruesome,” the woman answers the unspoken question. “The cause of death was an overdose. Coroner wasn’t sure if it was accidental or not, but he had done enough drugs to take down an elephant, it seemed.” She finally steps over to the casket and poises her hands at the lip of the lid. “Would you like me to…?” 

Mo opens his mouth to say ‘yes.’ He wants to know if Zeke had brown or blond hair or maybe some crazy color. He always talked about dyeing his hair but never did it, when Mo knew him. He wants to know if Zeke ever got face tattoos, like he always said he would. He wants to know if Zeke is buried in a suit, or if he’s going to be buried in his dad’s vintage windbreaker like he always wanted. 

Mo shakes his head and slams his eyes shut. “No, that’s okay, thank you.” He turns on his heel and leaves. His footfalls, rapid as they are, fall silent on the thick carpet of the funeral home. Even when he hits the tiled floor of the lobby, he can’t hear his footsteps over the blood rushing in his ears. He makes it as far as the curb outside before he falls to his knees and hides his face in his hands again. 

Distantly, he can hear car doors opening and his mother speaking with someone. His dad is kneeling beside him again and rubbing his shoulder, grasping his arm. His dad helps him to his feet and to the car, and he listens to his mom thank the lady. 

The moment they pull out of the parking lot, Mo’s consumed with regret, but can’t face the thought of going back in there. So he says nothing, slumps further in the seat, and tries to think about anything else.

* * *

Mo visits the grave on his way out of town. His parents are waiting on the road that winds through the cemetery. Zeke’s buried near a tree; it’s lush and full, even now in late August. The leaves are only barely starting to turn orange, and only a handful are scattered around the roots of the tree. It’s scenic, picturesque. Everything Zeke wasn’t, and it’s kind of sad, and kind of funny, and maybe a little beautiful. 

The headstone is like the casket: plain, dark, simple. All the usual information, and the cliched quote of “Gone too soon” in ornate script underneath the date of his death. 

Mo sinks to his knees, then shifts to sit crisscross. He drops his hands into his lap and sighs.

“Hey Zeke,” he says quietly. “Long time no see.”

No one answers him, because this isn’t a movie. Zeke isn’t haunting him. Ghosts don’t exist. Mo’s not sure he’d want them to. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t see you in June,” he says. He is sorry. He’s not sure what he would’ve said then; the wounds were so fresh, the hurt too new. He probably would’ve sobbed some more, just like he had that first night back home. Now, a few months down the line, he’s had time to process. He’s had time to work through some of the grief. He still carries it, holds it near his chest, but it’s no longer all-consuming as it once was. 

“I’m sorry I never reached out,” Mo adds, “I should’ve, at least to clear the air. I feel like...like we left so much unsaid. I want to know if you ever finished that manuscript you mentioned. I want to know what your dumb hair looked like, before you died. I want to know if you ever got sober...Maybe you did, and the overdose was just a slip up. Maybe you didn’t, and you wanted to die. I don’t know...I don’t know, Zeke.”

Mo shakes his head. Tears are rolling down his cheeks, hot and salty. The sun overhead is getting too heavy to bear. 

“I don’t regret being your friend,” Mo says. “Even if it all went to shit, I wouldn’t trade those years being your best friend for anything.” Mo wipes his eyes on his arm, then with the bottom of his t-shirt. “I’ll come back to visit. I promise. Maybe next time I’ll even remember flowers.” He laughs softly. 

He can almost hear Zeke’s voice. Something like,  _haven’t spoken in years and you don’t even bring any fucking flowers? What am I, chopped liver?_

Mo sighs. He tries to settle his rampaging heartbeat. “I hope you’re happy now, Zeke. I know you always said you were happy, but I think that was a lie. I hope you’re _really_ happy now. And healthy, and doing whatever you want.” 

Mo reaches out a shaking hand and traces the carving in the headstone. _Isaac “Zeke” Presanti_. 

“See you, Zeke.” 

He stands on quivering legs and makes his way back to his parents. His mom pulls him into a hug immediately. By the driver’s side door, his dad perks up with a look of concern. They all clamber into the car and there’s a beat of silence before they speak. 

“You okay?” His dad asks. 

“Not really,” Mo replies, “but I will be.” He looks over in the direction of the headstone. “I’ll be okay.” 


End file.
